Son of the Black Sword

  Omand waved one hand dismissively. “I am nothing.” He’d not been the most successful witch hunter in the history of the Order as a result of cunning alone, but he liked keeping his true capabilities secret. It was good to keep his opponents guessing.

  “Of course.” Not even Sikasso was bold enough to push that topic. “My apologies for prying.”

  “This is most curious.” Omand returned the pipe to the stand. Vadal tobacco was truly the finest there was, far better than the bug-infested garbage that he’d grown up with, and he would have enjoyed finishing it, but he had work to do, letters to write, and hosts to manipulate. He didn’t bother to put his ceremonial mask back on. Sikasso had seen his true face many times already. “So, when you say he’s escaped, you mean Ashok is truly missing, as opposed to one of your men being so eager to lay his greedy hands on an ancestor blade that he saw his opportunity and murdered Ashok during the fight?”

  “That is the risk you take when you hire us, but no.” Sikasso was still wearing his stolen Protector armor. It was so spattered with dried blood and caked with mud that the silver no longer gleamed. The wizard was civilized enough to remain standing, and not soil the fine silk pillows with his filth. “You have my word. My men are scouring the countryside and watching every possible path. We will find him.”

  “And then you will watch him. I know it pains you so, but he’s still more valuable alive than dead for now.” Omand could see the greed in Sikasso’s eyes. He was a collector of magic, and Ashok was walking around with a treasure trove of it. Despite all his talent, all that power and cunning, Sikasso was just as easily manipulated as any other man. As long as Omand could supply him with what he wanted, he would remain a dog on a leash. “Don’t worry, Sikasso. You’ll have that sword in time. This is Ashok we’re talking about. If he’s alive, just follow the inevitable trail of corpses. If he’s dead, then you’ll find the sword somewhere. If the warriors do manage to kill him, make sure his body and the witnesses disappear, and I’ll simply pay you to create chaos in his name from then on.”

  “That would be far simpler.”

  “I’m the Grand Inquisitor. I didn’t earn the title by being simple.”

  “Your plans are beyond my meager imagination, my lord.”

  “On the contrary, I believe you have a far better grasp of politics than you let on.” That dig was payback for the assumptions about Omand’s magical abilities. The assassin’s house had managed to survive undetected in a lawless no man’s land for generations, so Sikasso was extremely astute. “I assume that when Ashok failed to provide a convincing enough display of savage casteless rebellion, you did it for him?”

  “We killed most of the warriors there and put the village to the torch. I had the local arbiter’s head stuck on the tallest pole. One of my men wrote the casteless will rise in his blood across the bridge.”

  “A nice touch.”

  “The survivors don’t know what hit them, but they believe it was the Black Heart and a few Protectors. Soon everyone will tremble at the mention of Ashok. Dead or alive, his legend will grow.”

  “See? You get it. You would make a fine Judge.”

  Sikasso smiled. “My job is more honorable.”

  “True.” Simply killing people was far easier than manipulating people into killing each other for you. Omand was excellent at both. “Tomorrow I begin my journey back to the Capitol. Casteless rebellion and renegade Protectors? I imagine someone of strong moral character will need to keep order during this time of turmoil.”

  “We’ll continue our search. I’ll contact you when I have news.” Sikasso gave the Grand Inquisitor a small bow, walked to the tower’s open window, stepped through, and dropped silently from sight. Omand had to admit that no matter how many times he worked with the twisted men of the Lost House, that manner of exit always remained unnerving. Omand did in fact have incredibly powerful magic, but shape shifting had never been among his many skills. He liked his body—aging and flabby as it was—to stay in one piece.

  There was a polite knock on the door. Omand put his mask back on.

  A moment later Inquisitor Taraba entered. “Good evening, sir.” He took note of the open window and the billowing curtains. “You’ve received word from the assassin?”

  “I did. Things are proceeding well.” He could tell his subordinate had something else to say. “You may speak freely. I can tell that he’s gone.”

  “I just spoke with one of our spies among the Vadal. Did the assassin tell you that one of his men died at the prison? His head was stomped into paste so there’s no danger of him being identified, but he was also disguised as a Protector.”

  “Our dear friend neglected to mention that.” Omand chuckled. That had to sting. There weren’t very many members of Sikasso’s Lost House. Losing even one would be frustrating.

  “I don’t trust the assassin.”

  “That’s perceptive of you, Taraba. I fully expect Sikasso to betray us at some point. That’s the nature of such men.”

  “Then why—”

  He held up one hand to stop his subordinate. The Grand Inquisitor wasn’t in the habit of explaining his actions to anyone, but Taraba was a young, extremely capable—and most importantly—loyal Inquisitor. Though he lacked the imagination to ever rise to Omand’s position, Taraba was valuable, and deserving of mentoring. “Sikasso’s kind are addicted to the accumulation of magic. I’ve employed them to shadow a man carrying around some of the strongest and rarest magic in all of Lok. Normally such an item would be considered off limits because they couldn’t afford to anger a great house or an order and still survive, but Ashok is dishonored and disowned. There’s no one to avenge him. I’ve planted the idea that even if Ashok dies, our mutually beneficial arrangement may continue. Being an intelligent man, he will think it through to the logical conclusion. This is a rare opportunity for Sikasso. Eventually greed will overcome sense, he’ll murder Ashok and take his sword. It would surprise me if he wasn’t plotting such a move already.”

  “Why use them then?”

  “Because the services of the assassin’s house are very expensive. They require payment in black steel or demon parts. I’m only paying them to follow, observe, and facilitate. It would be far costlier to hire them to assassinate a bearer, and this way when they do inevitably dispatch Ashok, their greed will force them to hide it from me. They will lie to my face and I will gladly continue to pay them for it.”

  Taraba was far smarter than he looked. He grasped the implications right away. “They’ll keep committing atrocities to blame on the Black Heart. You don’t care who causes them, as long as the great houses fear a casteless rebellion.”

  “Correct. Their unreliability makes them reliable. Plus, it saves us the expense of having to dispose of the extremely dangerous Ashok ourselves once he’s outlived his usefulness. The Inquisition has a budget to keep.”

  “That’s brilliant, sir.”

  “I do my best,” Omand said with false humility. Tomorrow was the beginning of another long journey, and he needed his rest. “Take this letter with you. As soon as our hosts see fit to inform us about the horrible embarrassment of losing the prisoner, have their wizards will this to their fellows in the Capitol.”

  Taraba took the letter. “Speaking of costly, instantly sending a message such a distance will use up whole fragments worth of magic.”

  “Time is of the essence, lad. Our Order must know that there are other Protectors in league with the rebels! All of the Protectors are now suspect and action must be taken. House Vadal will be so ashamed they’ll be glad to do this favor for the Inquisition, and what’s a bit of black steel compared to that? Tomorrow will be busy, so I believe I’ll retire for the evening. Leave me.” His subordinate immediately turned away, but on second thought, there were so many exciting things happening that Omand found himself in a festive mood. “Taraba, wait . . . Have our hosts send up a pleasure slave for my amusement.”

  “Yes, sir.”

 
“And make sure the girl is someone . . . that won’t be missed.”

  The young Inquisitor swallowed hard. It was one thing to torture people as part of your obligation, but another to do it for amusement on your own time. The Grand Inquisitor knew he had a reputation for having peculiar appetites. “Of course, sir.” Taraba bowed, then fled the tower.

  Omand rose from the cushions, walked over, and closed the window. The night was chilly.

  Chapter 27

  The Capitol’s grand bazaar was very quiet in the hours before dawn. It was about the only time the place was relatively calm, but even then, there were still hundreds of workers getting their booths ready and stocking merchandise for the busy day to come. Rada was very familiar with the bazaar at this hour, because over the last few months this was the time that she’d normally sneaked away from her secret rendezvous with Devedas to go back to her family estate.

  It was that familiarity that told her something was wrong. The merchants had stopped working. They were all looking back the direction she’d come from, and there was nervous whispering. She overheard the word Inquisition repeatedly. Frightened, Rada hid among the people who were arriving to work and tried to blend in while she eavesdropped. A large group of Inquisitors had been seen on their way to the Protectors’ compound.

  The judges often proclaimed that only the guilty feared the Inquisition, but everyone knew that was a lie. Rada was innocent. In fact, she knew that she was the victim, but she was still terrified of the Inquisition. The Law gave them the power to sweep up anyone they suspected of treason or dealing in the forbidden arts, and many of those who were taken were never seen again, and if they were, it was only as desiccated corpses decorating the top of the Order’s foul dome.

  Logically, she knew she should have run, but Devedas had been investigating a supposed Inquisitor on her behalf. Was it possible that he’d angered them? Was her lover in danger? She had to know. So the librarian made her way back toward the Protectors’ compound, doing her best to blend in with the merchants. The workers were afraid of the Inquisition too, but they were morbidly curious when the Inquisitor’s attention was on someone else.

  It was rare to see more than a few masked Inquisitors at a time. Judging by the number of lanterns, there had to be hundreds of them. It was like an army was marching through the bazaar. She’d never have guessed there were so many in the Capitol. Rada knew there were only a handful of Protectors present. During her many recent visits to their compound, the most she’d ever seen at a time was ten, and most of those were barely more than children. They were a relatively tiny order, spread thin over all of the continent. Why send an army of Inquisitors if they weren’t intending to arrest the Lord Protector?

  This is all my fault.

  The Inquisitors had stopped in front of the compound’s wall. The gates had opened and a lone figure was waiting there to greet them. Rada’s heart skipped a beat when she saw that it was Devedas. He was wearing nothing but a sleeping robe tied around his waist. A small group of Inquisitors broke off, their black armor made them look like gliding shadows, and they approached Devedas. She tried to get as close as possible so she could hear what they had to say, but luckily, the lead Inquisitor shouted his accusation so loudly the whole block could hear.

  “There has been treachery in the north! I bear a message for Lord Protector Devedas.”

  For once the market had fallen silent enough to listen.

  “You found him.” Somehow Devedas managed to sound bored, like an army beating down his door before dawn was of no particular note. “Speak.”

  “By order of the Council, the whereabouts of all Protectors must be accounted for. The Protectors within the Capitol are to remain confined to their compound unless authorized. If requested, Protectors must submit to interrogation at the Inquisitor’s Dome.”

  Devedas didn’t so much as raise his voice. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The lead Inquisitor must have practiced beforehand, because he delivered his message with gusto. They must have wanted the whole city to know. “The traitor Black-Hearted Ashok has escaped, killing members of the governing caste and hundreds of others across House Vadal.”

  “Escaped? Why would he bother? The traitor only wants to die.”

  “He was aided in his escape by Protectors of the Law.”

  The crowd in the bazaar gasped.

  “Lies.”

  “It was confirmed by a multitude of reliable witnesses.”

  “Then they are mistaken,” Devedas snapped.

  “The Council has declared that until the Protectors of the Law have been freed of this treacherous corruption, the entire Order is suspect. Until those loyal to Ashok have been purged, the Protectors are—”

  Devedas began walking away.

  “Where are you going?” the Inquisitor demanded.

  “To get dressed so I can go argue this foolishness with the judges.”

  “Was I not clear? You’re not allowed to leave your compound!”

  Devedas stuck his head around the wall and surveyed the many lanterns. “What did you bring? Two hundred men? I have twenty senior Protectors here.” Rada knew that was a huge exaggeration, but the way the Inquisitor took a few steps back, he didn’t know that. “We’d be finished with you in time for breakfast. If you plan on keeping us here, you’d best come back with real force.”

  “You would flout the Law? You threaten to turn your blades against servants of the Capitol, like unto the Black Heart!”

  “You made your speech, and I’m sure by sunup the entire Capitol will be talking, but now you’re beginning to annoy me. Go tell your masters that I’ll demonstrate exactly how much love this Order retains for the traitor by delivering his head to the council myself.” Then Devedas snapped an order and his men closed the compound’s doors in the Inquisitor’s face.

  Chapter 28

  Dreams of drowning tormented him until the ache in his chest brought him back to consciousness. Ashok lay there, taking stock of the pains in his body. There were healing puncture wounds in his back, side, and foot. Everything hurt, but his lungs were especially sore. He remembered being swept along, out of control, breaking the surface to gasp for air before being dragged back down. He’d been disoriented, flailing, crashing against rocks and tangled in clinging underwater vines, as his air had run out, his lungs had burned, and evil water had flooded in to destroy him.

  And at that last instant, he had known fear.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  He’d not realized he had been. “Because they didn’t take everything from me after all.” Wherever he was, the light was poor. Small bits of sunlight came through cracks above and there was a single candle burning next to him. It smelled like river. He was flat on his back, on a thin blanket, on a plank floor. He’d used the Heart too much, and it felt like his skull was split in two, but Ashok turned his head far enough to see who’d spoken. There was a woman kneeling next to him. She had the candle, but was wearing a scarf and a hood so he couldn’t make out any of her features. “Where am I?”

  “Hiding.”

  Not a very specific answer. It took a moment to collect his thoughts. From the odd, stomach-churning sensation of rocking, he figured that he was on another barge. Angruvadal was still sheathed at his side. That was good. Even as loyal as he was to his sword, he would have had a very difficult time going back into the water after it. “Hiding where?”

  “This compartment is used for smuggling contraband past checkpoints. It may offend you to know this, Protector, but no one likes to pay taxes.”

  “I’m not a Protector anymore. How did I get out of the river?”

  “The Keeper was given a vision where to find you and we fished you out of the river.”

  “But I drowned. How am I alive?”

  “The kiss of life . . . I shared my breath with you.”

  That made no sense. “Witchcraft?”

  Now it was the woman’s turn to laugh. “If I had magic that strong w
ould I be on a barge piloted by untouchables? You’re looking a bit jumpy there. I’ve got to remember your kind likes to execute first and ask questions later. It’s nothing like witchcraft. It’s just an old trick. When someone drowns, push out the water in their chest, then force your air into their mouth to fill their lungs while they can’t. Sometimes they live, sometimes they don’t.”

  Ashok had never heard of such a thing, but he didn’t normally associate with brazen criminal women.

  “A useful trick to know when you’ve spent as much of your life around water and morons as I have. Try not to move. Your wounds began to heal as soon as I pulled the arrows out, just like the Keeper said they would, but there was a poison on one of those that struck you. It was like nothing I’ve seen before, and I’ve seen some nasty ones. I forced you to drink some soothing tea, but even then, I’m amazed you’re alive. You’ve been unconscious for several days. I expect you will remain weak for a few more.” She got up and left him.

  Ashok must have fallen back to sleep, because the next time he opened his eyes the sun was higher in the sky and there was a bit more light sneaking through the cracks. Outside, men were singing, a rough, rhythmic, working song. He was in a wooden room with an extremely low ceiling. His headache had subsided. A thin man was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Ashok’s blanket. He was probably close to Ashok’s age, but losing his hair. He was wearing simple clothing, cleaner and in better repair than what most casteless would possess, but without any of the insignia a worker would normally wear to indicate his station. He didn’t carry himself like a warrior either, head up, shoulders squared, but more like someone who simply didn’t care how he presented himself at all. The man had a bucket at his feet and a ladle, which he pushed toward Ashok’s lips. He was so thirsty that he drank without question.

  It was wonderful. Water was eager to murder them all, but man couldn’t live without it. It was a very spiteful arrangement.